Throw Out Your Bouquet
by Flashing The Floods
Summary: It isn't so much affection as it is a mutual understanding, a mutual appreciation, and a bad habit. Crappy, plotless, cryptic OC/Debrah femslash drabbles.


**Author's Note: Just some drabble-babble crap. Plotless snippets of mediocrity. Nothing more, nothing less. Title is from Brand New. **

******Oh yeah, as for why I still spell Debrah's name without the 'o' again. Firstly I don't like that letter. Second, I just kinda dig the original spelling. S'why I still call Laeti "Laeti." I'd even spell Lysander's name with the swapped 'r' and 'e' if I could depend on myself not to mess it up all the time. Which I can't, cause I spell center and theater the same way.**

******The rating is for cursing and pervy things. And whoever catches the TBM reference wins thirty points!**

* * *

_(take heart sweetheart or i will take it from you)_

_ — brand new_

Marcese's lips brushed over Debrah's with an uncharacteristic hesitance and her hands grabbed at Debrah's with an urgent possessiveness. Debrah broke the kiss and tilted her head, linking her fingers with the azure-haired teen's eager ones in the hopes to appease them.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Flaxen orbs lowered to the floorboards.

"Really?" Debrah scoffed. "You think you can lie to me, of all people?" She took great pride in her acting skills and it would be an insult if Marcese thought she couldn't see through trivial untruths.

"Are you and Castiel really over?" Her gaze shifted to Debrah again, hardened.

"Well, yeah." Debrah scooted back to the couch and tugged Marcese along with her. "I told you how I broke it off with him." She let go of her hands and plopped down on the cushions.

Marcese eyed her skeptically and sat on the arm of the couch. "He wore his old clothes for you. He keeps a magazine with your article in it from over three months ago. That doesn't sound like a guy who's over you."

Debrah shrugged. "I'm over him. That's all that matters. Why do you care anyway? I'm not your girlfriend."

"You could be."

Genuinely surprise, Debrah's unique orbs fixed upon her, fuchsia-painted lips parted in question.

Roses bloomed in Marcese's cheeks. "Ah, what I mean is, I'm...Well, I'm asking you out." She sheepishly raked a hand through her short, boyish locks.

"Knowing what you do about me, you still want to ask me out?" Debrah dubiously lifted a brow.

"Apparently I do," she huffed, her blush deepening.

"Cute," purred Debrah. She latched onto Marcese's arm and pulled her down on top of her, eyes dancing with glee. Marcese sprawled atop her with a startled squawk and hefted herself up, straddling Debrah's waist and likely not even meaning to.

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"It's a yes," hummed Debrah lightly.

Surprise flickered across Marcese's features, quickly replaced by satisfaction. She nodded and dipped her head down, mouth skimming the singer's neck. Her teeth grazed the sensitive skin near a vein and Debrah tipped her head back. A noise of blissful contentment slipped past her lips and her fingers languidly stretched up to thread themselves through azure tresses.

Marcese nuzzled and kissed her way up to Debrah's cheek, nose brushing the shell of her ear. "I'm going to kiss you right in front of him. Maybe then he'll take off those stupid clothes."

"You're a cruel girl," chirped Debrah with amusement, knees raising and pushing gently to Marcese's hips, holding her in place.

The azure-haired teen raised her head and met Debrah's gaze. "You're crueler."

"Yes," she snickered. "But that's why you like me."

"No."

Debrah fluttered with confusion. She tilted her head and gaped, positively baffled. "What?"

"I like you because you make me feel special," Marcese admitted quietly. "You're honest with me."

"But...Aren't other people honest with you?"

"Yes. But _you're_ not honest with other people." Marcese's thumb tenderly stroked over Debrah's lips. "I haven't heard you utter an honest word to anyone other than me since I've met you. You lie to everyone else, but you're always open with me. It makes me feel special."

"I hadn't noticed," Debrah breathed honestly.

**.**

**.**

**.**

They skipped class to hang out in the locker room. Sweet Amoris had never really been the strictest school anyway. Marcese's absence probably went unnoticed and Debrah technically wasn't supposed to be there to begin with.

Debrah strode along a wall of lockers, her fingernail dragging on the metal. "Which ones do you think have lunch inside?"

"I don't know and I'm not going to find out." She gave the singer a stern look. "Taking people's food is wrong."

"Fine." Debrah rolled her eyes and sat down on the bench next to her girlfriend. She was wearing a shimmery sleeveless tube top today and Marcese's orbs lingered on her bare shoulders. She lifted a hand and softly drew her fingertips over the inked insects that forever flew there, features thoughtful.

"Why butterflies?"

"They're beautiful. Free. Feminine and simple in design, and everyone likes them."

"Cabbages don't."

Debrah giggled, steel blue and coral depths shinning with mirth. "Cabbages aren't people, idiot."

"I was just pointing out that some butterflies are parasites," softly protested Marcese. Her lips captured the parasitic tattoos in a tender kiss.

"Mm. But cabbages are plain in comparison to butterflies. No one cares that the parasite is a parasite if the host doesn't stand out."

"True enough," Marcese agreed. "It's funny the way the world works."

"Do you want to take a shower with me?" Debrah grinned, cocking her thumb back toward the showers.

Heat tinged Marcese's face, but she nodded.

**.**

**.**

**.**

"I never noticed how weird your name is before," Debrah declared one night when Marcese was stretched out on her couch and only half-awake. Her head was resting on Debrah's lap and her eyelids drooped, fighting and failing to stay open.

"Hm?" she mumbled, flaxen pools blearing shifting up to Debrah.

"Marcese is a really weird name, that's all."

"Never stopped you from screaming it in bed," yawned the girl with said weird name.

"It hasn't," Debrah agreed and absently pulled the blanket up to her girlfriend's shoulders. "And it won't."

"I'm named after a crayon company that never existed," she explained sleepily.

"A weird origin for a weird name," concluded the singer.

Marcese didn't reply, off in dreamland and dead to the waking world.

**.**

**.**

**.**

The azure-haired teen was back in Debrah's hotel room, comfortable as could be on the plush carpet with a book in hand. A relaxed smile subtly curled up the corners of her mouth. Too relaxed. Debrah would have to change that.

"What are you reading?" She padded down the short hallway and plopped down in front of her, clad in only a long nightshirt.

"Hamlet," answered Marcese. Her eyes stayed glued to the page.

"That's a good one," Debrah replied.

"I'm sure someone like you can appreciate the usage of metaphorical masks, crafty manipulation, and role-playing. Right?"

"Someone like me?" Debrah mimicked, a grin thick in her silky voice.

"Come, come," Marcese tittered the quote right from the play itself, "you answer with an idle tongue."

"Go, go," Debrah responded in kind, "you question with a wicked tongue."

Marcese paused and slowly lowered the book, flaxen depths shifting to Debrah with incredulity.

"What's that look for? You said yourself someone like me could appreciate Hamlet." Her pearly whites flashed in a smug simper.

"I didn't think you'd appreciate it word for word."

"And if you tell anyone that I do, I'll tearfully break up with you in front of everyone at school and say you cheated on me."

"You can be so extreme sometimes," Marcese commented lightly as she raised the book again.

**.**

**.**

**.**

"No."

"Yes."

"No, I can't. I don't know how to dance." Marcese squirmed under Debrah's scrutiny.

"Then I'll teach you," declared Debrah. She took Marcese by the wrists and rapidly backpedaled to the kitchen. Far from graceful, Marcese stumbled over herself with an awkward gait and struggled not to fall into her when Debrah snapped to an abrupt stop.

"Now put your hands on my waist," the singer instructed, her own hands knitting together behind Marcese's neck. Sighing in resignation, the azure-haired teen did as she was told. Her fingers tapped impatiently against Debrah's skin as she waited for further direction.

"Now just follow my lead." Debrah stepped back and swayed her hips, bare feet scuffing on the tile and picking up rhythm to the music that wasn't there with sensual ease. Honestly, it just wasn't fair.

"I'm sure this isn't the right way to teach someone," Marcese muttered as she tried to adopt the same movements. Her fluidity lacked and she tread on Debrah's toes with every step.

Debrah valiantly refrained from flinching and grinned cheekily. "Sure it is. You're already doing better."

"We should at least have some music playing," Marcese argued halfheartedly, eyes lowering to the floor to monitor her missteps as her teeth gnawed at her lip in concentration.

"There is, if you listen hard enough," breathed Debrah. She inclined her head and rested it against her girlfriend's chest. The silent music harmonized with her heartbeat.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Marcese laid on the sun-warmed blacktop in the courtyard, soaking up its heat as small flecks of infrequent gravel pressed into her flesh. She stared up at the clouds and followed the way they rolled, changing shapes as her thoughts conflicted and entertained themselves.

Debrah came along soon enough and plopped down beside her. "I see a microphone," she said, finger pointing towards a cloud Marcese swore was a coffin.

"I want to die alone," she responded blandly and somewhat randomly.

"What?" Debrah gawked at her as if she were insane.

"We're all going to die eventually and I want to be alone when I do."

For a moment Debrah didn't reply. Then she stretched out next to Marcese and folded her arms under her head, eyelids fluttering closed. "That's weird. Most people don't want that."

"I guess I'm not most people." She shrugged. "It just makes more sense to me. Dying isn't pretty. Your organs are expiring, your body is transitioning to a corpse. Half the time you piss and shit on yourself because your bladder and your bowels give way. The whole thing is a really dirty business. I don't want anyone to see that, and that's probably what's natural. A lot of animals look for a quiet spot to be alone in when they know they're going to die."

"So you're saying you're an animal?" Debrah questioned idly.

"We all are, technically." Marcese's flaxen depths trailed on the cloud that looked like a button.

Debrah sighed through her nose and cracked an eye open to give her girlfriend a sidelong glance. "Is there even a point to this conversation? You say the strangest stuff sometimes. I don't even know why I'm dating you."

"Because I'm a good fuck."

"Better than my ex," Debrah agreed and spared a smirk as Marcese blushed.

**.**

**.**

**.**

"You cross-dress!?" Debrah called out from the closet incredulously, even deeper in it than Rosalya had been on that one very, very embarrassing day when her style of underwear was broadcasted with disdain.

"Occasionally," Marcese admitted, standing up from her bed and poking her head into the closet, where Debrah was lifting up and critically surveying a distinctly masculine dress shirt.

"Not that often. Just once in awhile, on weekends...That doesn't bother you, right?"

Debrah plucked up a classic satin accessory from a hook and whirled around. She tossed it over Marcese's neck and tucked it over correctly, pulling up the knot with a sly grin.

"Tighten your tie, boy, you're something to die for."

**.**

**.**

**.**

Marcese stared up at Debrah as she twirled the microphone and tangled her fingers in its cord as she languidly strutted across the stage. She was transfixed upon her, a beacon of flashing neon lights and the embodiment of poise. Her voice rang beautifully and tangled with coherent thoughts.

The lyrics flowed through the atmosphere in a captivating melody and her impressive sapphire heels carried her from one end of the stage to the other, and she never stumbled once.

Marcese swayed to her song and followed every shade of cyan, magenta and lime that haphazardly bathed her features.

Debrah's mascara-enhanced eyelashes batted and fluttered at everyone in the auditorium, except for her.

But later, there are;

hot touches, hard kisses, clothes ripping, skin bitten, moans pitching;

tastes like cotton candy, sweat, roasted almonds, rainstorms, powdered flames.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Debrah woke up before Marcese did and stretched her fingers up toward the ceiling. Her chestnut tresses fell over her tattooed shoulders in ratty tangles and her eyes felt heavy with the clumpy makeup she didn't have time to wipe off. Her lips were almost swollen and her back tingled tenderly with fresh scratches.

Her gaze fell on her sleeping girlfriend who dozed on the pillow face first, snoring very unattractively. Debrah's fuchsia lipstick stains smeared across the nape of her neck and shoulders, accenting the reddened impressions of teeth.

She made her feel special.

She was honest with her.

Honesty.

It was a concept Debrah had all but forgotten. Lies came as easily as breathing and they felt as natural as singing. False smiles and faux promises and phony friendship were tokens she bestowed with practiced ease. They didn't really take effort anymore and she didn't pay much thought to that anymore. To her, deceit was neither far nor unfair, it simply was.

She was deceitful and there wasn't much more to it than that, as the principle of deceit is a layered condition within itself and doesn't call for anything else. But she was honest with Marcese. She hardly called it that initially, thought of it as intimidation tactic more than she did the truth.

But it made Marcese feel special. It was important to her.

Debrah huffed to herself and dropped her head back to the pillow, thinking that was silly. Not just silly, but weird too. On the other hand, she supposed on some level it was nice not to have to bullshit. It was nice to have someone you could just be yourself around. Someone to be frank with.

However, she supposed that was a luxury it might be dangerous to indulge in for too long.


End file.
